Dancing in the Devils shoes
by AJ Lindup
Summary: In turn, how both Sherlock and John are dealing with the aftermath of Reichenbach. Neither of them are coping very well, and both are on the tether of choosing between life and death.
1. Chapter 1

DANCING IN THE DEVIL'S SHOES.

And I wish your face was just your face,  
and not the moonlights chosen resting place.  
How can the world compare?  
It's just a planet when you're not there.

Come watch me hit the ground,  
with the most fantastic sound,  
talking out loud is not a good thing to do  
when you're dancing in the devil's shoes.__

John gasps, his eyes flying open, his arms reach out in the air, desperate for something to grab onto. Whole body flailing, he settles on grabbing the sheets in fistfuls, rubbing the material between his fingers. He needed to feel something real. He couldn't bear to see Sherlock's face much longer, his great coat flying in the rushing wind, his arms flailing madly. He couldn't bear to see the broken body smashed upon the ground, his eyes unseeing, frozen. He didn't want to see the only face that mattered to him, not when it gazed upwards with no life. He tries to rid himself of the emptiness that the dream causes, the realization that nothing will be able to compare.  
The dream slowly slips from his mind and as all of the muscles in his body relax, he sinks into the mattress. John stares up at the ceiling, trying to stop his mind from thinking. He lays thoughtless in his bed for two moments before his body is suddenly wracked with sobs. The first one always hurts the most, coming from deep in his stomach and bursting out of his mouth as tears flow down his cheeks. He turns face down into his pillow as he sobs out his grief. It starts the same every morning. John dreads the night when his tired eyes slowly close shut even as his mind is racing, desperate to stop the dream from coming back. He wipes his face into his pillow now, trying to calm the tears. Sherlock's face appears before his shut eyes so he keeps them open for as long as possible, only blinking when his eyes burn and tears spill over his lashes. He sobs, alone, for an amount of time that leaves John feeling breathless and more tired than when he went to bed. He wipes his eyes for the last time and sits up in bed, determined.  
He gets up, making his bed and changing the pillow covers. He walks into the kitchen and holds his breath as he picks up Sherlock's mug instead of his own. He can feel the tears building up, threatening to fall. He glares down at the mug, his eyes full of hate. Anger builds up in his throat and he screams, throwing the mug at the wall. It crashes with a fantastic sound and John pants through a brief feeling of glory. He blinks, and sees Sherlock crashing against the pavement; he can hear the noise as his body finally stops falling. John gasps, eyes flying open. He stares at the mug before running over to it. "I'm so sorry" he breaths through his tears. " I'm so, so sorry Sherlock". He picks up the shattered pieces and scoops them all together. He hugs the shards of ceramic in his arms, weeping silently.


	2. Chapter 2

Miles above the ground below  
No particular place to go  
Flying higher

Stumble back home to the news at 10  
Catch a thought  
Let it go again  
Flying higher

It's a long way down,  
down's not where I want to be.

Sherlock opens his eyes suddenly, ridding his racing mind of the images that happened to haunt him still. He blinks furiously, batting away tears as he sees himself looking down at Johns face from miles above the ground. Drawing in a shaky breath he tries to stop seeing the floor rushing towards him, only half sure that he would come out of this alive. He sits up in his makeshift bed and shuts these images from his mind completely, thinking now only of his body's needs.  
He leaves the shabby flat that he had found abandoned with Mycroft's help, wrapping himself in a long tan coat and adjusting the tie that he had taken to wearing. He took the backstreets, his body's instincts telling him where to go. He needed this now, more than ever. Jumping over a metal fence, he groans as a bit of barbed wire slices into the flesh of his calf. He examines the cut briefly, before forgetting it along with the rest of the cuts that covered his thighs and arms, the pain somewhat relieving to his body's demands.  
He collects his paper bag discreetly, tucking it into the inside of his coat and brushing his hands through his short, ginger hair. He stumbles his way back to the flat, eyes squinting in the alleys as it approaches night.  
Finally alone, he walks over to the sofa, flopping down onto it in a mass of shadows and angles. He grabs for the paper bag, his hands shaking with the effort. He needed this, and he needed it now. Drawing out the bottle and a sterile syringe, he hastily punctures the lid and drags in the liquid slowly. He almost fills the needle up, grinning lazily as his excitement grows.  
The small, sharp pain as he punctures his skin is forgotten after a hiss as the liquid hits his bloodstream, his head giddy with relief. He lets himself drift off into another world, laughing softly at the floating colours underneath his eyelids.  
His breaths are short and shallow, his chest barely rising with the effort and he sees another flash of memories. Sherlock groans, battling with his mind to try and delete the images that will not leave him alone. He doesn't want to see John breaking down at his funeral, begging for a miracle, walking away with the softest hint of a limp returning with his grief.  
Sherlock closes his eyes tight; concentrating on the colours that loyally ridded his mind of these thoughts. Letting himself drift back into a world with no pain, he can hear a voice, right at the back of his head, calling him an idiot, telling him to not let himself go down this route again. He bats the voice away with another dose of the liquid from the syringe and giggles softly at his hands, curling his fingers in amazement.


End file.
